The Good in Me
by FoxInBox aka FIB
Summary: Izuku is almost five when he meets the man who will one day become known as Hero Killer: Stain. He is almost five when he never makes it home from the playground.
1. Chapter 1

Izuku is almost five, and people have started noticing that he does not have a quirk. There is a doctors appointment set up for a few months down the line, one to confirm that he is just a late bloomer, or that his is one of millions of "invisible quirks." In the meantime, though, the kids from around the neighborhood and at school still taunt him. It has made him a target more times than he can count, and his mother has noticed that the scrapes and bruises and burns don't line up to the stories he tells. She begs him to tell her the truth and watches the children waiting for him to come out to play with wet green eyes that glisten like steel, waiting for one of them to do something so she can correct their actions and lecture them until their own eyes shine with tears.

They never do, though. Even at such a young age, they all know better than to push Izuku around where his mother can see. Izuku is relieved; even if they're not always very nice, these are the only friends he has. He doesn't want to see Kacchan get in trouble.

Izuku is almost five and he stands before bullies that he calls friends. His fists are trembling. His cheeks are wet. The girl crouched behind him has a hole burned in her skirt and her hair mussed up from falling to the ground. She sniffles, shielding her face as Izuku throws his arms out and yells that they are being mean, that he will stop them no matter what.

Kacchan sneers. The others laugh. The girl he was trying to protect runs away as her bullies turn their sights on Izuku instead. Even so, he still feels a sense of accomplishment welling up inside him, right alongside the bruises that litter his skin.

He limps his way to a park bench as the sun is setting in the sky, the world around him awash in shades of orange and stretching shadows. His bullies and his friends have wandered off, on their way home after a long day of play. Izuku is left alone, hoping that if he stays out long enough his mother won't notice when he sneaks in covered in dirt and dried blood.

(Of course she'll notice. She always does. That won't stop him from telling her that it's nothing, though. He will smile and protect his friends; it's what a hero would do, after all!)

The streetlights have just begun to flicker on when someone approaches Izuku. He turns, wide eyed, to look the stranger over. The man (he's pretty sure it's a man) just stares back with an unnervingly stoic gaze.

"Can I, uh, help you?" Izuku tries, doing his best to be polite. As he speaks, he stands and takes a step away from the stranger, looking him up and down, trying to decide what to do.

"I saw what you did earlier," the man says. His eyes catch the last few rays of the setting sun. They glow like dying embers among the shadows of his face.

"Uh, what? I-I don't really know—"

"The girl. You protected her. It was very impressive for a child your age."

Izuku finds himself beaming at the praise, cheeks flushing with pleasure. He ducks his head and mumbles a shy thank you. The man rasps out what he thinks is a laugh.

"What is your name, child?"

"Midoriya Izuku," he says, then adds, "I'm four. Who are you?"

The man rasps again, and this time Izuku is sure that it is laughter. His smile loses its shy edge as he directs it back towards the man that is not quite a stranger anymore.

"You can call me Stendhal."

Izuku hums, taking another step backwards in order to crane his neck back and take in all the details of the man. His hair is tied back and out of the way. His clothes are dark and practical, and if Izuku looks carefully he can see the glint of weapons amongst the folds of fabric. He has bandages wrapped around his face like a mask, and a spot of brown where his nose should be. Izuku's eyes go wide and shiney, his smile drops into an expression of open awe.

"Are you a hero?"

"Perhaps a few might call me that," Stendhal says.

"Do you know All Might? He's my favorite hero ever!"

Stendhal's mouth is too wide as a smile breaks over his face. Izuku feels a creeping unease at the hunger in the man's eyes, but the excitement over meeting a real hero drowns it out quickly. He crouches down to look Izuku in the eye, blood red and bright green meeting, and Izuku can't seem to pull his gaze away no matter how much he wants to.

"You know what, Izuku-kun? All Might is my favorite hero, too."

Izuku is almost five when he meets the man who will one day become known as Hero Killer: Stain. He is almost five when he never makes it home from the playground.

* * *

 **This just came from a 4am random idea so I'm not sure if I'll continue it or not. I'm bnha trash but writing is hard.**


	2. Chapter 2

Katsuki has never seen his mom cry before. It's not much, just a few silent tears that she wipes away quickly with a furious look upon her face, but it is enough to rattle him to his core. He watches as she hangs up the phone, then stares at it blankly for a moment, as if expecting it to ring again. He is almost surprised when it doesn't, considering the fact the his mom has been on it all day.

Deku's mom had called the night before, right as Katsuki was getting ready to go to bed, and then his mom had been on the phone ever since. Katsuki scowls, fingers curling to form white-knuckled fists and eyes trained on his mom's weird expression. This is all Deku's fault somehow, he just knows it.

"Katsuki." His mother's voice is scratchier than usual, and so low that he has to strain to hear it.

"What?" His voice is quiet, too, but he doesn't know why. Something about the way his mom's eyes are still glossy makes him worried, makes him scared to be too loud or too mean.

"What was Izuku doing when you left the park last night?"

His scowl deepens at the mention of Deku, but he feels a bit of a smug thrill when he realizes he had been right; whatever is going on _is_ Deku's fault. He shrugs when he realizes his mom is waiting for an answer.

"I dunno. He was just sitting there being useless, I guess. He didn't want to go home."

His mom's lip curls, but she doesn't scold him like she usually would. Instead, she breathes deeply and scrubs a hand through her hair until it sticks up almost as badly as his own. "Do you remember seeing anyone else there with him?"

Katsuki shrugs again. "There's always somebody at the park. That's why Deku's mom lets him play there, 'cuz that means that there's gonna be a grown up nearby." He scoffs. "He's such a baby."

His mom's fist comes down, striking the table hard enough to knock the phone off its receiver.

Whatever he might have said next dies on his tongue at the look on her face. His mom is always yelling and making faces, usually because of him. He's used to anger and frustration and amusement and pride, all flashing across her face whenever the moment strikes, because his mom is the kind of grown up that doesn't hide how she feels. He thought that he had known all the faces she could make, but the one she's making now is new. New and horrible.

"Mom?" His voice shakes. His mom's lower lip trembles, and she clenches and unclenches her jaw. Katsuki swallows around the lump that he can feel forming in his throat. He tells himself that he has to be brave, like All Might, and asks, "What's wrong?"

She moves so fast that for one awful second, Katsuki thinks that she's going to hit him. He flinches back and squeezes his eyes shut, and he thinks, _is this how Deku feels?_

She doesn't hit him. Instead, he finds himself enveloped in a hug so tight he thinks he might have bruises by the time she lets him go. Her face is all screwed up and ugly, and it makes his tummy hurt to see her like that.

"Let go of me, you old hag," he says without any venom. He doesn't push her away or try to squirm out of her grip. His palms ache. His eyes prickle with heat.

"Shut up, brat," she growls back, squeezing him harder.

They stay like that until his nerves get the better of him and the ache in his hands becomes too much. She doesn't scold him beyond a sharp hiss of his name, pulling back to swat at the fire he's set. She grumbles about having to buy a new shirt, but it's subdued and distant. She doesn't yell or throw a tantrum or tell him that she's going to make him practice until he cries.

Somehow, that's what sets him over the edge. He feels heat spill down his cheeks and his nose start to run. She gathers him close once again and Katsuki can feel the way her entire body shakes.

"What's wrong, mama?" he sobs, scared of how she's been acting and desperate for it to be over. "What's wrong? What's wrong?"

It's more of a mantra than a real question. He can't seem to stop crying, sobbing so hard that his words are barely understandable around his hiccups and gasps for breath. She shooshes him, rubbing gently at his back and ignoring the tiny explosions going off in the tiny hands that are pressed tightly to her back, clutching at the ruined ashes of her blouse. She waits until he has calmed down before she says anything.

"Katsuki," she whispers, pulling back to look him in the eye. Her voice is gentle. He hates the way it sounds. His mom takes a deep breath and says, "It's about Izuku."

* * *

 **sorry it's boring. I'm just trying to make things up as I go.**


	3. Chapter 3

It's been three weeks, and Izuku has finally run out of tears. The man who took him is unsympathetic, and is barely around anyway. When he leaves, he makes sure that Izuku's room is locked from the outside. The windows are bricked over and the room is bare, probably to stop him from finding any way to get out. That doesn't stop him from trying, though.

Stendhal comes back to find the broken handle of the plastic spoon Izuku had been given with his lunch jammed into the doorframe, like he had been trying to lever it open. The boy himself is asleep, curled up on the floor nearby with his blanket draped around his shoulders. The tray is held loosely in his hand, like he had been planning an ambush. The sight makes the man smile.

He toes at the boy, heavy boot nudging him awake. Izuku startles, jerking up and staring at Stendhal with sleepy eyes for a second. Then, his eyes go wide. He scrabbles for the tray, fingers wrapping around the edge with a white-knuckled grip. Before he can swing, Stendhal grabs his arm and wrenches the tray from his hands with ease.

Izuku stares at the fingers encircling his arm. He's trembling, but there is steel in his spine. Stendhal smiles, wide and unsettling, and throws the tray. Izuku flinches at the sound it makes as it hits the brick wall, trying in vain to pull his arm from the man's strong grip. He looks his captor in the face, and though his eyes burn, the tears don't fall.

" _Why_?" he asks. It is not the first time. He's stopped expecting an answer at this point, so he is shocked when the man speaks, expression becoming grave.

"You have the potential to become a true hero," Stendhal tells him. From anyone else, the words would have thrilled Izuku beyond belief. Now, they just confuse him.

"Wh-what?"

"You can become the kind of hero that the world needs. You have the heart and the compassion for it, but this world will squander your gifts. You need guidance, Midoriya Izuku." Stendhal grins, tongue lolling out for a second, too big for his mouth. Izuku shudders, but can't seem to tear his gaze away.

"I thought you were a h-hero," he whispers, breath hitching as he stumbles over his words. "You said you w-were, but you l-l- _lied."_

"I didn't lie," Stendhal says, shaking his head. His grip on Izuku's arm loosens, and Izuku pulls away, clutching it close to his chest. He scrambles backwards until his back hits the wall, never taking his eyes off of Stendhal.

"Heroes don't do this!" Izuku spits, still shaking, still terrified, but angry enough that there's a sharp edge to his words despite his fear. He has been ignored for so long, left alone in the quiet and the emptiness of his cell, that he can't seem to stop himself from babbling now that there is someone around to listen.

"You're not a real hero. They don't trick kids and steal them! Heroes don't lie and hurt and keep people in cages! You took me away from my mama, but if you were a real hero you would take me back! I want to go back. I want...I want to go home…."

"Why would you want to go back?" the man asks. "I saw how you were treated."

Izuku flinches, burns aching at the reminder. "That's nothing," he defends, voice pitched higher than normal. He is loud, and angry in a way that he hasn't been able to maintain for the past few weeks while his kidnapper was ignoring him. "My friends don't have anything to do with it. I want to go home!"

"They have everything to do with it!" Stendhal roars back. Izuku gapes at him, stunned into silence. Stendhal has done many bad and scary things, but he has never raised his voice at Izuku before. "Those people you call friends will drag you down and beat all the good from you! If they have their way, you will never become anything more than another bully or a snivelling coward."

Izuku shakes his head, lips trembling as he tries to find words. He flaps his hands a few times, distressed and searching for some outlet for it. Much to his shame, when he tries to speak, nothing comes out but a soft whine. Stendhal's eyes soften.

"Don't you see?" the man asks, his voice low and gentle. It's like he's trying to make up for his outburst by being overly gentle. He takes a step closer and kneels, looking Izuku in the eye. "I know all too well what can happen to the kind people in this world. You could be great, but in order for that to happen, you cannot be left to the mercies of those that would tear you down. This was all I could think of to save you from that fate."

Izuku stares, wide eyed and trembling all over. He finds, looking into his captor's sad eyes, that he has more tears to shed after all.

* * *

 **Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! as usual I have no idea what I'm doing here, so if there's anything you want to see please for the love of all things holy tell me so i can write something.**


	4. Chapter 4

Izuku is breathing hard, limbs trembling so hard that he is barely able to hold the wooden staff up. Stendhal watches him, head cocked curiously to the side and hair hanging limply over his shoulder. He hasn't broken a sweat yet, but that is to be expected.

"You're not trying," he says, not quite an accusation, but not as gentle as he had been when these lessons started a month before. Izuku does not meet his eyes.

"I don't want to learn this," Izuku tells him. It isn't quite the truth; if things were different, Izuku would have loved these lessons. He would have taken any chance he was given to learn more about how to be a hero. Instead, each lesson he is made to endure just feels empty, like a mockery of his dreams. He doesn't like it.

"You want to be a hero, don't you?"

Izuku shrugs, eyes on the floor. "I just wanna go home."

Stendhal frowns, brow creasing in thought. The hole where his nose used to be whistles as he breathes deeply, settling agitation and sorting through his thoughts. Izuku inches away, chewing his bleeding bottom lip. In the time he's been here, Stendhal hasn't hurt him outside of their lessons, but he still gets nervous when the man begins to get agitated. After all, he is a bad guy; he took Izuku and he still won't let him go, even if he says that it's for Izuku's own good. Stendhal watches Izuku drift further away, and he thinks.

Then, he smiles.

"If you can become good enough, then there will be nothing that can stop you from going home."

Izuku's head snaps up. For the first time in weeks, Izuku looks his captor in the face. He stares at Stendhal, wide eyes wet with tears and tiny fists trembling.

"What?" he asks, hardly believing his own ears. Stendhal's red eyes shine in the flickering lights of the gutted apartment.

"If you become strong, then I won't need to protect you anymore and you can go back to your mother. Think of how proud she'll be, if her son can come back to her a hero."

"Really?" Izuku asks. His voice is high and startled, achingly full of emotion. "If I become a hero, I can go back to my mama?"

Stendhal nods and the boy's face lights up. It is the first smile since he had been taken. Izuku accepts the man's words as truth and holds them close to his chest, any shred of hope that he can find hoarded desperately. In his mind Stendhal's words have become a promise, something to dream about and to work towards. If he is not strong enough now to escape, then he will just have to become stronger.

Stendhal smiles at the sudden change in demeanor. His tongue is still too big for his mouth, but the expression does not disgust Izuku this time. Instead, it fascinates him.

"What is your Quirk?" The words come out before he can stop them. It has been on his mind for some time, but he has never had the courage to ask before now. Stendhal's smile doesn't drop, and he instead moves closer and kneels down to Izuku's level. Izuku doesn't notice that the action cages him in.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," the man says. Izuku adjusts his grip on the wooden staff, which has dropped to rest at his side. The tip drags on the ground. He chews at his lip, tasting the blood, and looks away.

"I don't know," he admits, feeling a flush of shame. He had been teased so much for not having a flashy quirk like his friends. He doesn't want to see what kind of expression Stendhal will have. "Me and my mama were going to see a doctor about it."

Stendhal huffs out a breath. Izuku flinches when the man's heavy hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

"Don't look so worried, kid. Lots of people have Quirks that they don't discover until later."

Izuku forces himself to look up, stopping just short of meeting the man's eyes. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, tries to force back the fear and the hurt, tries to keep the wetness gathering on his eyelashes from spilling over.

"They do?" he asks.

Stendhal nods. "Yeah, they do. I didn't find out mine until I was almost in middle school."

"What is it?" Izuku asks, blinking away the tears. His mind is spinning, curious, and it works well to distract him from his own worries.

"Take a guess."

Izuku frowns, considering the man in front of him. He takes a deep breath. Then, the words begin to spill out, theories he's kept bottled up inside his own mind.

"It has something to do with your senses. Your tongue is shaped kind of funny. It's bigger than most of the people's I've seen. Your eyes are funny too. Plus, someone took your nose. So it makes sense." He takes a deep breath, brow furrowed in thought. "But a lot of people have Quirks that affect how they look but don't really have anything to do with their powers, so maybe that's not right. You would need to have a really strong Quirk if you wanted to work as a hero or...anything like that…."

Izuku trails off, though there are words and theories still spinning through his mind. Stendhal's smile only grows, and he tips his head back and laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

Stendhal comes back to the apartment with a cake and a package wrapped with green ribbons. He sets them down in front of Izuku, who is in the process of bandaging his bruised knuckles from a day of training, and smiles. Izuku looks at the gifts, then back to Stendhal, his tiny brow wrinkling with confusion.

"Sorry it's late," Stendhal says. "Happy birthday."

Izuku's eyes go wide, then fill with tears. He offers the man a shaky little smile, though his fists tremble where they have gone tight around the roll of bandages. A scab on his knuckle splits and begins bleeding.

"Thank you," Izuku says, and waits silently while Stendhal goes to get a knife to cut the cake with. He holds the present loosely in his lap, staring down at the ribbons without really seeing them. He thinks about the party he and his mom had talked about having when he turned five. It's probably a good thing that they never got to throw it, since he is pretty sure that no one would have come, anyways.

"Here, I'll get you a piece," Stendhal says, making Izuku jump. He hadn't noticed the man return.

He waits quietly while Stendhal cuts him a piece that is way too big. Izuku doesn't bother to say that he can't eat that much, and accepts the paper plate. The frosting is red and blue, drowning the white cake beneath it. He hasn't had this much sugar since Stendhal started training him.

"How did you know about my birthday?" he asks, dragging the tip of his plastic spoon through a glob of icing on his plate. Stendhal settles cross-legged in front of him and takes a bite of his own piece. Izuku notes that there are dark stains on the sleeves of the man's ragged shirt.

"It wasn't too hard to find the information. I just checked the public registry."

"Oh." Izuku takes a bite of the cake, and can't help but giggle at the way the sugar makes his taste buds tingle. He ignores the creeping feeling of Stendhal watching him as he takes another bite. He has gotten used to the man's strange interest, the way his dark eyes will track every movement.

He makes it through half of his slice before Stendhal says, with thinly veiled enthusiasm, "Are you ready to open your gift?"

Izuku nods, and despite his uncertainty and the lingering sadness that he didn't get to spend his birthday with his mom, he can't help but feel a little excited at the prospect of a present. He sets his plate aside and starts in on the gift, careful with the ribbons but tearing the wrapping paper apart with childish excitement. He hears Stendhal huff out his strange laugh as he watches.

Izuku's eyes go wide as he sees the flash of yellow inside. Almost reverently, he pulls out the contents of the package. An All Might hoodie, just a couple sizes too big, sits in his lap. Its vibrant colors seem to light up the dark, colorless room. A huge smile spreads across Izuku's face.

"Thank you," he says, and he means it this time.

"I thought a future hero like yourself might like it," Stendhal says, leaning back with a satisfied smile on his face. Izuku blushes, still pleased and a little surprised every time Stendhal says such things with such casual confidence. After almost a year of all his friends saying that he would never be a hero, it was nice to have someone who believed so full-heartedly that he would.

"We don't even know what my Quirk is," he mumbles, ducking his head to hide his smile.

"I have a pretty good idea what it might be," Stendhal says. Izuku's head shoots up so fast his neck cracks. His eyes are wide, his mouth agape, and Stendhal wheezes out another laugh. "You wanna know?" he asks, eyes glittering.

Izuku nods, leaning forward eagerly. His heart is hammering inside his chest, so loud he worries he might not be able to hear what Stendhal might say. The man's grin is far too wide for his narrow face, but Izuku no longer finds it strange.

"My best guess is that you have an Analysis Quirk."

"Analysis?" Izuku asks, lips pursing with thought as he tries to remember what the word means. He frowns. "How do you know?"

"You think I haven't seen those notes you're keeping on me?" Stendhal asks, arching one thin brow. Izuku blushes, mouth opening to apologize, but Stendhal waves his words away before they can make it from his mouth. "It's fine for now, but things like that can be dangerous. Make sure you destroy them when you're done."

"Okay. Sorry." Izuku chews his lip, then asks, "How am I supposed to be a hero with something like that, though?"

"Don't look so disappointed, kid. If you can be taught how to use it properly, then Analysis can be extremely useful in pretty much any situation."

"But how?"

Stendhal rolls his eyes. "You're a smart kid, Izuku. If you can read an opponent's movements, if you know what their strengths and weaknesses are and know how to combat them, you will have a good chance of winning — or at least surviving — a fight with that opponent, no matter how powerful they might be."

Izuku considers the man's words. It makes sense, and even if Stendhal is a bad person for what he did to Izuku, he can't deny that the man seems to know a lot about combat and heroes and villains. Something warm unfurls inside Izuku's chest, and even if he's not sure whether Stendhal is right or not, it's still exciting to think he might have a Quirk that can be used to become a good hero, if he has the right training.

Stendhal can give him the training he needs.

Izuku takes a deep breath and smooths out the fabric of the hoodie. There is a single drop of blood on the white from where his knuckle had split open and bled. He stares at the familiar colors and wonders why All Might hasn't come to save him yet.

* * *

 **Hello! First let me say, thank you for your patience! I know it took a while to get this chapter out. I've recently moved in with my significant other, and started a new job, and I'm back at school. So I don't really have a lot of free time at the moment.**

 **That said, here's a friendly reminder that reviews feed an author's soul. ;)**

 **This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Topea Utopia, who has given me some super cool ideas for this fic. This chapter is for you. Happy (late) birthday!**


	6. Chapter 6

It used to be that he would do anything to get attention. He loved the feeling of all eyes on him, of the awe and the praise and the way people were so quick to tell him that he is going to be great some day. Now, though, Katsuki hates the attention he gets.

The other kids at school all croon and cry and ask him how it feels to lose his best friend. (He scoffs and shouts and tells them they're all idiots, because he and Deku weren't even that close. It's not his fault that the nerd didn't have any other friends.)

The ones at the park avoid him, like being too close might mean that they'll disappear, too. (He wouldn't care if they did.)

All the grown ups hover and watch him with sad eyes. His dad tells him that that look is called pity, and Katsuki decides he hates that, too. (He hates a lot of things about grown ups these days, like the way they treat him like glass or the creeping fear he gets when he sees one alone at the park when he passes by after school.)

His mom makes him go with her to visit Deku's mom on the weekends. They make posters with Deku's dumb smiling face plastered all over them. Sometimes he just waits in silence while his mom and Deku's mom read stuff on the internet about missing people. Usually though, they just sit together and talk. Katsuki bites his tongue whenever he wants to yell and answers questions about school and life and whether or not he has seen anyone suspicious lately. He looks away and pretends like he doesn't notice when Deku's mom cries. (It seems like she is always crying.)

His mom says that Mrs. Midoriya needs friends more than anything else right now. He doesn't understand why he needs to be her friend, but he doesn't say anything. Partly it's because he knows that his mom would get angry, but mostly he stays quiet because seeing Deku's mom so sad makes something in his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He holds his mom's hand when they walk home at night. She is telling him that he needs to smile more and be nicer to Mrs. Midoriya, to answer questions and say kind things. She isn't yelling yet, but her voice is loud and he sees an old lady on the street glance at her with pursed lips. He makes an ugly face at the lady, flames popping in his free hand, and grins when she turns and hurries on her way. His mom keeps talking, oblivious. (Or maybe she just doesn't care.)

"Is Deku coming back?" he asks when they are almost home, cutting into her tirade. She falters, and he hears her missed footstep echo on the empty street.

"Izuku is a smart kid," she says, instead of answering. Katsuki frowns, loosening his grip on her hand. She stops walking, forcing him to come to a stop as well.

"I don't care if he's smart," Katsuki tells her, his voice gruff and low. "Is he coming back or not?"

His mom gives him the kind of smile that grown ups give when something is wrong but they don't want anyone to know. It makes his stomach hurt, and he hates his mom in that moment. He tries to pull away, but she won't let his hand go.

"Katsuki, Izuku is tough enough to hang out with you, isn't he?"

"That's not an answer!"

She opens her mouth again, but he doesn't want to hear what she has to say. He hates the way she acts when anyone mentions Deku. He hates when she tries to be soft, tries to be nice in a way that she's never been before.

He hates Deku for being the reason why his mom acts so strange sometimes, and for being the reason why he has to go and sit and listen while Deku's mom cries. He doesn't understand why Deku is ruining his life, even when he isn't around.

"Let go of me," he growls, trying to pull away from his mom's tight grip. She doesn't let go.

He doesn't understand why sometimes he feels like crying when he thinks about Izuku.

Katsuki sets off an explosion. His mom pulls away with a hoarse yell, cradling her singed hand to her chest. He scowls at her and takes off running. He hears her yell for him to come back, curses spilling from her mouth and into the night air. He prefers that.

It doesn't take her long to catch him. His legs are short and he doesn't have anywhere to go besides home, anyways. She grabs him by the wrists so he can't use his Quirk on her, yanking him back so hard that he thinks she'll leave bruises. They're both yelling now, and he can't help but feel relieved.

"Why would you do that, you little brat?" she snarls, and he can feel the heat of the burns on her hand as she holds him.

"Why wouldn't you answer my question?" he shoots back. Explosions are popping angrily in his palms, illuminating their faces in bursts of hellfire.

"I tried!"

"You did not! You never said yes or no! You never answered! You never—"

She cuts him off with a roar, releasing her grip on his wrists so suddenly that he stumbles.

"Because I don't know!" she howls, and the earth beneath his feet seems to shift. He blinks up at her, and the fury and the satisfaction he felt has turned to uncertainty in the face of this shifting beast of rage and grief before him. His mom is staring back, and it seems as though she can't settle on a single emotion.

This is the mother he knows. This is the one he has missed in those too-quiet moments she sometimes has now. He is scared and overjoyed at once.

"You don't know?"

She shakes her head, face red and eyes shimmering in the dim light. His palms tingle and the sparks die.

He's not sure why he feels so sick.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I have some ideas for upcoming ones, but first I have to ask: Are there any canon characters anyone would like to see in this story?**

 **Leave your thoughts in a review and help me decide who will be in the upcoming chapters. ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

Although he does not know it, six months have passed. It is impossible to keep track of the time, after all, when there are no windows and your captor keeps odd hours.

Izuku is breathing hard and the bandages around his hands have new spots of blood staining them. It isn't too bad, really. He's getting better with his practice sword. Stendhal's grin gets wider every time Izuku manages to almost hit him.

On the day that he does finally hit him, hard enough to draw blood, the man cackles. He wipes the streak of red from his face and grabs Izuku to draw him nearer, staring at him with a crazed light in his eyes.

Izuku's breath catches in his chest and he goes very still. He is waiting for something to happen, something bad that has surely been building since that first moment when he was snatched from the playground.

Instead, he gets a light shake followed by a pat on the head. He stares up with wide green eyes, trying to figure out what could possibly be happening now. His eyes trace the red that Stendhal has streaked across his face. It isn't the first time he has seen blood on the man's face, but it is the first time that the blood is Stendhal's own.

"You're getting good, kid!"

Izuku ducks his head and mumbles his thanks. He can feel his heart stuttering in his chest and his fingertips tingle. He doesn't know what will happen next, but he can sense that it will be big.

"You wanna hit the streets with me?" Stendhal asks, and the world around Izuku grinds to a halt. He can only stare, open mouthed as he waits for the punchline. Stendhal just keeps grinning and it begins to occur to Izuku that maybe this isn't a joke after all.

"Wh-what?" he manages to ask after several seconds of uncomfortable silence.

"You wanna be a hero, right? Then I'll show you how it's done."

Izuku feels the blood drain from his face. The idea of leaving this apartment suddenly seems unbearably terrifying. Inside these walls, he knows what is expected of him. He has a routine of sorts and he has gotten used to it.

Once they step outside, though, he won't know what Stendhal will want from him anymore.

"What...what do you want me to do?" he asks, his voice almost a whisper. He barely manages to keep himself from stuttering. Stendhal has told him before that it was unbecoming of a future hero, but Izuku just hasn't been able to break himself of the habit yet.

Sensing his uncertainty, Stendhal ruffles his hair, trying to be comforting. Izuku's hair is overgrown and tangled by now, and he winces as the man's fingers catch in the knots and pull. He doesn't bother to say anything, though.

"You don't have to do anything but watch and learn tonight. You can do that, right? It's what you're good at."

The passing mention of what might be a Quirk still makes Izuku's heart warm. He offers the man a tentative smile and nods. Then, with Stendhal's direction, he prepares himself to go out.

He is blindfolded and slung over Stendhal's back while they make their way to...wherever they are going. Izuku is amazed by the chill in the air, the smell of the breeze, the sounds of the city passing them by. He hears the sounds of other people, close enough to touch, for the first time in months. He wonders why no one thinks to look twice at the pair of them.

He wonders why no heroes are coming to save him yet.

Izuku keeps his mouth shut as he was instructed. He doesn't yell or ask for help. He doesn't fight or try to run away. He stays quiet and still, waiting for Stendhal to tell him what to do next. He is waiting, because he knows that sometimes that is what has to be done. He remembers having to wait for Kacchan to leave school first. Remembers waiting to go home until a time he knew his mom would be busy, cooking dinner or going through papers or cleaning up, so that she won't ask him about the dirt on his face or the ash on his clothes. He can wait now, too. He doesn't have any other choice.

They come to a stop long after Izuku's legs have begun to get sore. When the blindfold is removed, he knows right away that if he tries to leave he'll just get himself lost. He doesn't know this place, doesn't recognize the street signs or the buildings. The alley they are in is dirty and the echoes of voices from somewhere on the streets meet his ears. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the contrast of neon lights and the heavy shadows. Then, he looks to Stendhal.

Stendhal isn't paying him any mind. His beady eyes dart across the entrance of the alley, following the people walking past, unaware of the man lurking in the shadows. Izuku waits.

After a few moments, Stendhal seems to snap out of his thoughts. His lips split and curl, the strange approximation of a smile. He adjusts his bandages and scarf, then reaches a hand out for Izuku to take.

They take a winding way, up fire escapes and across rooftops. Sometimes Izuku is carried. Other times he has to follow behind, panting for breath and sweat pooling beneath the fabric of his dirty All Might hoodie despite the chill. His muscles burn and his lungs cry out for air with each gasping breath, but he feels more alive now than he has in months. Even though he's trailing behind Stendhal like a lost puppy, he is revelling in the feeling of freedom that comes with seeing the city spread out in front of him.

He gets breaks when Stendhal tells him to stay where he is, depositing him roughly on one rooftop or another and disappearing into the gloom of alleyways below. Izuku sits wherever he is placed, covers his ears, and waits for Stendhal to come back for him. It never takes too long, and before he has the chance to even fully catch his breath, they take off again. Stendhal is always on the lookout for the next fight.

A scream echoes through the air and for the first time Stendhal comes to a stop so quickly that Izuku slams into his back. They stand still, listening to the sounds of a struggle below. Stendhal glances at Izuku, contemplative and maybe a little excited. His tongue lolls out as he grins.

"You've been doing good tonight. You ready for some action, kid?"

Izuku doesn't answer. He doesn't really have to, because the next second he is being swept off his feet and together they hurtle into the alley below. He's set down, his feet landing on a pile of garbage. Stendhal keeps a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back a little so he can hide behind the man's body. A can skitters out of a torn bag, the sound seeming too loud. Two heads swing to look his way.

As Izuku takes in the scene, he feels his hands begin to tremble. The woman is bloodied, pushed against a wall of the dirty alleyway by a man with slicked back hair. He feels Stendhal go tense, fingers curling around Izuku's shoulder so hard it hurts. He can't bite back the whimper that fights to escape from between his clenched teeth.

Stendhal releases his grip and says, "Maybe you shouldn't watch this one, Izuku."

Izuku takes his advice. His eyes squeeze shut, but he can still hear everything that is going on. He hears the grunt of pain, the shriek and the scream. He hears the woman as she scrambles away, heels making unsteady staccato against the concrete. She is gasping, shuddering little breaths like she is fighting back sobs.

Izuku opens his eyes, keeps them trained on the ground as he makes his way over to her. She stares up at him, confused. Blood stains her white hair and there is a tear in her dress. He offers her a shaky smile and holds his hand out for her to take.

"I'm going to get you away from here," he tells her, his voice rough and soft to keep from attracting attention from the two men fighting just a few meters away. She looks for a second longer, her eyes glassy and a little unfocused. They shine even in the dim light of the alley, suspicious and scared.

Then those icy eyes soften. She smiles at him and takes his hand in a gentle grip. Her skin is soft and cold against his rough palm, and tears cloud his vision. She reminds him of his mom.

He pulls her to her feet and leads her out of the alley and into the street, skirting the walls to keep from drawing attention to them. He hears Stendhal yell, but it is muffled. Izuku doesn't look back, though the woman seems to hesitate. He urges her on, keeping his head down but his eyes trained on the entrance to the alley.

"We need to find somewhere safe to hide," he tells her. She doesn't let go of his hand even as they race through the streets, finding a quiet 24-hour store to duck into. It is almost empty, though the cashier glances up and gives them a concerned look as they pass.

"Are you okay?" the woman asks him. Izuku blinks up at her, surprised by her concern. He nods.

"I'm fine, but what about you? You're hurt." He pulls his scarf off and offers it to her. She smiles and accepts, but her eyes trace the bruises that stand out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his neck. Stendhal had been teaching him how to escape different kinds of attacks. Sometimes the man forgot his own strength when he was teaching Izuku new things.

"Thank you," she says, pressing the fabric to her head to try to staunch the bleeding. "What's your name?"

Izuku wants to answer. He really, really does. He wants this woman to know his name, to remember him, to find his mama to tell her he's okay, and to call someone to come and save him.

He remembers the blood on Stendhal's weapon and the dangerous glint the man sometimes gets in his eye. He knows if he says anything that this woman could be in danger. The worries and the wants swirl in his mind, choking him and stilling his tongue.

"Hey, I called the hero that patrols this area," the cashier calls, saving Izuku from having to answer. He waves his cell phone at them vaguely, biting his lip.

"I'm glad you're safe," Izuku tells the woman, backing away. She frowns and steps forward, hand reaching out to take ahold of his arm. He freezes and looks up at her with wide eyes. She smiles at him, and turns to the cashier. He can see the stiffness of her shoulders and the iciness in her eyes, as though a new threat has appeared that he doesn't know about yet.

"Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary. I was just heading home anyways."

Izuku can hear the frown in the cashier's voice as he asks her if she's sure, but he doesn't dare to look away from the woman. He has to wait for his chance to escape from her. If he can find police or a hero before Stendhal finds him then he can make sure that nobody else gets in trouble with the man.

She turns back to him and gives him a look that makes him freeze, stopping his attempt to sneak away while her back was turned. "You're coming home with me, young man. We're going to get you some help."

"Why?" he asks. She sighs, pulling the hem of her dress down further and ignoring the tear that exposes a hint of pale flesh. Then, she kneels so that they are at eye level.

"I have a son," she tells him. "He's probably about your age. I'm taking you with me because, even if it isn't always pleasant, my house is at least going to be safe until we can get you some help. Do you understand?"

Izuku nods and tears flood his eyes. The kindness of the woman is staggering and he doesn't know what to do in face of it. He cries because he knows that, no matter what she says or what he wants, she can't protect him from Stendhal. She smiles at him, soft and gentle and so much like his mom that it makes him just cry harder.

"Come on," she says, turning away to look out the store window, eyes scanning the street outside for any sign of danger. She fishes a cell phone from her purse, frowning down at the freshly cracked screen as she punches in a number. She holds her free hand out for him to take, just like he did for her. He wishes that he could accept it.

Izuku shoves past her and runs. He ignores her as she calls after him. He can hear her heels clicking on the pavement behind him, but it isn't hard to lose her. Escape is something that he has been training to do, after all.

He hides, waits for the sound of her voice and the clip of her shoes to fade to somewhere far away. He waits until Stendhal comes to get him, hauling him to his feet and shaking him a little. Izuku stares at him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I didn't tell," he says.

Stendhal stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrow and glinting blood red. He nods once and takes Izuku back to the apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

It doesn't take much effort to find information on the boy. She has access to records that few do, technology that does most of the work for her with just a few typed orders. She enters in approxomite age, hair and eye color, and sets the program to look through both police and missing persons reports.  
She has to scroll through a few pages of results, eyes darting over each face and a sinking feeling in her stomach as she realizes just how many children are missing or abused. It makes her want to pull her own children closer, but she has been forbidden from seeing them during their training hours. It makes her heart feel hollow, but she knows she must endure.  
She's so lost in thought that she almost misses him. She has to scroll back up, eyes going wide as they land on the thumbnail of a smiling child. She clicks his picture, and the face of the child she lost fills the screen.  
She is directed to a site dedicated to missing children. She wishes it had been a police report. At least then she would have been able to do something to help him.  
"Izuku," she reads aloud, eyes tracing the soft lines of his face, the freckles that dot his skin, the way his smile lights up his eyes. It doesn't match the one she had seen at all.  
She sighs, leaning back in her chair as she contemplates the screen in front of her. Now that she's found it, she isn't sure what to do with this information. She can't tell Enji. No matter how much she wants to help, that man can't know what happened to her. He would find some way to make the whole thing her fault, and she would feel the repurcussions of his displeasure for months to come.  
She contemplates for a while longer, unmoving as she thinks. The shadows lengthen and warp, the only indication of the time passing by. When she makes her decision, there are still another few hours left of training, so she knows she will not be interrupted.  
She calls the police first, an anonymous tip about a vigilante and the kidnapped child he had with him. Then, after that task is finished, she finds another number.  
The line rings four times before a tired voice answers. She pauses, wondering for a split second if she is making the right choice. She shakes her doubts off quickly though.  
"Midoriya Inko?"  
"Yes..?" The woman sounds wary, uncertain. Mostly, though, she just sounds defeated.  
"My name is Todoroki Rei. Your son helped me the other night."  
There is a breath, like the woman is steadying herself. When she speaks, her voice wobbles. "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."  
"No, I don't believe I do. Might I be able to come over for a while to discuss? I'll bring tea."  
And this is how her first friendship since she had been married begins.  
They sit together for over an hour while Rei tells Inko of every minute detail she can recall. She silently offers a handkerchief as Inko sobs, loud and messy and undignified. She feels her heart ache with sorrow for this woman and her child, but also with envy. She is not allowed to cry like Midoriya Inko, but there are times when she wishes she could.  
Inko, in turn, tells her all about her son. She speaks in length of her son's intelligence and his favorite subjects in school. Her voice breaks a little when she tells Rei about Izuku's friends and the way they had begun to turn on him as soon as they began to suspect that he may be Quirkless. She smiles, tearful but lovely, and says, "His dream is to become the kind of hero who can help people with a smile on his face."  
Rei feels tears spring to her own eyes at that and quickly wipes them away. It wouldn't do to ruin her makeup. She takes a dainty sip of her tea to buy herself a moment before she is expected to respond.  
Despite her best efforts, her voice still cracks as she says, "He achieved his dream, then."  
Inko's big green eyes dart up and lock with hers, surprise written all over her features. Rei clears her throat.  
"What?"  
"When your son extended his hand to help guide me away from my attacker, he was smiling at me. Even though he was scared, he still did his best to smile. I think he was trying to tell me that everything would be alright. Midoriya-san, even with the circumstances he has found himself in, your son has still managed to achieve his dream. He is a real hero."  
More sobbing is the response. Rei waits for it to end, sitting silent and tense while the woman before her cries herself hoarse. Seven minutes in, and there is still no sign of the tears slowing down. She sighs, braces herself, and rises from her seat. Inko is shocked enough that she goes silent as Rei winds an arm around her shoulders, pulling her snugly against her side.  
She doesn't speak. Any words she might offer will be nothing more than hollow repetitions of comfort that Inko must have already heard a thousand times over. She waits in silence for the woman's tears to stop, offering nothing more than an awkward attempt at a hug. Somehow, it is enough.  
Inko pulls back, sniffles and wipes her nose with the handkerchief Rei had given her. Then she looks Rei right in the eye and smiles, the brightest and most beautiful smile she has seen in years. Her heart stutters and her breath catches in her throat.  
 _That's what Izuku's smile should have looked like,_ she thinks.  
"Thank you for being there for him when I couldn't," Inko says. "Your children are very lucky to have a mom like you."  
Somehow, this is what pushes her over the edge. Her vision wavers, and the next thing she knows there are tears freezing on her cheeks.  
"Oh," she murmurs, lifting a hand to brush the tears away. Inko stops her, her fingers warm and dry as they wrap around Rei's hand. She gives the tiniest shake of her head, her smile turning into something a little more sad.  
A part of Rei wants to snap. She doesn't need this woman's pity. She wants to snatch her hand back and snarl, demand that the woman never touch her again with those calloused dirty hands. A week ago, perhaps she would have. It is all she has known her whole life, after all; the cold expectation of perfection and the burn of disappointment when she failed to achieve it.  
A week ago, she would have torn this gently smiling woman to shreds with her words and her gaze alone.  
But a week ago, she hadn't been saved by a dirty child with the same smile as his mother.  
Somehow, she leaves with a promise to return.  
Somehow, one visit turns to two and then five and then ten.  
Somehow, she is allowed to take her children with her and she has to fight back tears as she watches Shoto play with the neighbor boy from next door.  
Somehow, for the first time in more than a decade, she is happy.  
(But such things never last.)

* * *

 **I wrote this on my phone so please let me know if any of the formatting looks funky.**

 **Let me know what you think! I appreciate every review, favorite, and follow.**

 **Thank you and have a great day!**


	9. Chapter 9

The beeping of his watch isn't enough to distract him, though it does cause him to curse beneath his breath. He had promised himself that they would be home before midnight tonight. He ducks the burst of fire that lights up the alleyway, rolling and then jabbing upwards into the fleshy bits of the man he is fighting.

It's just a quick swipe of his tongue and the taste of iron, and the man is on the ground. Chizome grins down at the asshole and gives him a solid kick to the ribs. He can feel when bone gives way beneath his steel toed boot. If not for Izuku, who has surely been watching with rapt attention, he would have killed the lowlife while he lay like a worm in the dirt. If he's lucky, a rib pierced his lung and death will follow soon. Preferably once Izuku is out of eyesight.

As it is, he goes the less bloody route and ties the unconscious man up and uses the man's own cell phone to call the police and describe in graphic detail the crimes this asshole was guilty of. When he's done he crushes the phone beneath his boot and scales the fire escape.

As predicted, Izuku is waiting for him. He has his notebooks open and a medley of pens laying within easy reach so he can color code his thoughts as he scrawls them out. His handwriting and spelling are atrocious, but it's easy to see the genius behind his analysis notes. Multiple notebooks, each with a dedicated theme. There's the green one for Izuku's thoughts on heroes, a purple one for villains. The yellow one is dedicated to the Quirks that Izuku has seen, the blue one for Izuku's notes on different fighting styles, things he's learned through lessons and by observing.

The red notebook is dedicated to Chizome. It is filled with the theories Izuku has about his Quirk, notes on his fighting style and weaknesses, and a section dedicated to his likes and dislikes. It is going to have to be destroyed before anyone else can get to it, but for now, Chizome just doesn't have the heart to take a single one of Izuku's notebooks away. He's never seen the kid smile more, now that his interests are being encouraged.

"So what did you learn tonight?" Chizome asks, squatting down beside Izuku.

"That guy's Quirk was so cool!" Izuku tells him, eyes shining. He points to a passage in the yellow book, the writing illegible to Chizome unless he really tries really hard to decipher it. "Even from up here it was easy to see how much trouble he gave you. Skin hardening _and_ fire breathing, right? Every one of your attacks bounced right off of him!"

Chizome ruffles Izuku's hair. There is the sound of sirens growing steadily closer, which is their cue to leave. He glances at his watch again. It is thirteen minutes past midnight, but Izuku doesn't need to know that.

"Let's get home before midnight so we can celebrate your birthday properly, alright? You can tell me more about it on the way."

Izuku goes very still, something painful dimming the light in his eyes. He swallows hard and begins packing his supplies up in his little All Might backpack. Chizome sighs, trying to hide his frown.

"Tell you what, kiddo. When we get home you can tell me what you want for your birthday and I'll make it happen. Sound good?"

"Anything I want?" Izuku asks, a calculating expression on his face. Chizome knows that look far too well. He huffs out a laugh and resists the urge to ruffle the kid's messy curls again.

"You know the rules," he says. Izuku hums, barely acknowledging Chizome's mild admonishment. He finishes packing and holds up his arms to indicate that he's ready to go. Chizome scoops him up in one smooth motion and shifts him to his back. Izuku's warm arms wrap around his neck, and even after months of their patrol routine it still feels strange to allow the child so close to such a vulnerable point.

"Do you ever think about killing me?" he asks, preparing himself to make the leap to the next rooftop over. He feels Izuku's head tilt, wiry hair brushing his neck and rasping against his mask.

"Of course not. Killing people is bad," Izuku answers, and the childish simplicity makes Chizome smile a little. It's as refreshing as ever to have Izuku's pure perspective of the world any time he asks for it.

"You're right," Chizome replies, pretending for a moment like he doesn't have the blood of dozens of people on his hands. "It is bad. Not very heroic at all."

By the time they get back to the apartment, Izuku is beginning to nod off against his shoulder. Chizome puts the boy to bed, telling him to think over his birthday wish and tell him in the morning. Izuku mumbles his sleepy agreement before turning over and burying himself further into the covers.

Chizome waits around for a while, until he knows for sure that the kid is fast asleep and won't be stirring again for a while. He slides his mask back into place and creeps out of the apartment, careful not to wake Izuku up. Killing is bad, but sometimes it is the only way to clean up the stain that is their society. Izuku doesn't need to know that yet, though.

He spends a few hours cleaning up the streets, reveling in the violence that he doesn't use when Izuku is around. The fighting isn't enough to keep his mind occupied, though. His thoughts keep straying back to Izuku, wondering what he'll ask for and hoping that it is something that he can provide.

The night passes quickly and he returns home with the coming dawn, slipping in and heading straight for the shower. When he emerges from the steam filled bathroom a while later, he is surprised to see Izuku sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and with his hair sticking up in every direction. He frowns when he realizes that this means he won't be getting any sleep for at least a few hours more.

"Morning, kiddo," he says, rubbing his towel through his hair.

Izuku returns the greeting, not bothering to hide his yawn. He rubs at his eyes again, blinking slowly, and for one second Chizome entertains the hope that maybe Izuku is tired enough that he will just go right back to sleep. Instead, out of nowhere, his eyes suddenly go bright and wide.

"It's my birthday," he says, as though only now realizing it.

"Happy birthday," Chizome grunts in return. His eyes are burning a little bit. He's gone much longer without sleep, but it is moments like this one where he is reminded just how much he misses not having a kid to take care of.

"You said I could have anything I want for my birthday," Izuku slowly says, like he is testing the words.

"Within reason," Chizome adds. Izuku nods, then meets Chizome's eyes with steel-set determination in his gaze.

"I want to see my mom," he starts, and cuts Chizome's stern reprimand off before it can begin. "Let me finish."

It is an order disguised as a plea, and though he loathes to admit it, Chizome finds himself a little impressed. Izuku has always had a backbone, no matter how gentle he may seem on the outside, but it is rare that Chizome gets to see it. He tilts his head, silent permission for Izuku to continue. The boy swallows hard and wets his lips before speaking.

"I know I can't talk to her or...or let her see me. I just want to know that she's okay. That's all. That's the only thing I want for my birthday. If I can just see that she's okay, I promise I won't ask again. Please, Stendhal?"

Chizome makes the mistake of meeting Izuku's big, sad eyes. They are wet with unshed tears. His lower lip is trembling ever so slightly. The sight shouldn't affect him at all, but….

"I'll see what I can do," he says with a sigh, and is rewarded with Izuku's bright smile.

All things considered, it actually isn't that hard to grant Izuku's wish. He knows a guy with a surveillance Quirk who owes him a favor. She bugs the house and a week later she hands Chizome a flash drive and tells him not to bother her again. Chizome scans through the footage, watches Midoriya Inko make breakfast for one and go to sleep in her son's bed. She leaves the lights on, as though hoping it will guide Izuku back to her.

Chizome scoffs. If she hadn't wanted to lose her son, then maybe she should have done something about the nasty little shits that were bullying him. She hadn't seen the potential in front of her and had almost allowed the world to ruin the child that would one day become a hero powerful enough to stop even Chizome himself.

He's fast forwarding through the videos of Midoriya Inko weeping and staring out windows and acting generally pathetic. He can feel his frustration mounting as he realizes that there's nothing here he can show Izuku without depressing the kid.

He's about to call that asshole again and demand more footage when the final day begins playing. Inko wakes up and actually looks alive. She does her hair and her makeup, takes her time picking out an outfit. Chizome leans closer to the screen, wondering what the cause of her sudden liveliness could be.

The time stamp reads 0945 when Inko perks up, smiling as she runs for the door. A woman and a small boy are waiting on the doorstep, and Inko embraces the woman. She wraps her arms around Inko in turn, pulling her tight, eyes slipping closed with an expression that seems strangely conflicted. It's gone by the time the embrace is over, replaced by a polite smile.

Inko turns to the boy, ruffling his dual colored hair with a little too much enthusiasm. The boy flushes, turning his face away to hide the pleased little smile that is beginning to twitch at the corners of his mouth. Inko laughs, and while there is no audio, it is easy to see that it is genuine.

Chizome's lips turn up into a wide smile, his tongue bumping at the backs of his teeth.

Izuku watches the video with rapt attention, a hunger that Chizome has not seen since those first weeks of captivity burning behind his eyes. He sees his mother laughing and playing little games with a strange child. He watches as she leans close to whisper things to the woman with long white hair, calloused thumb just barely brushing the back of the stranger's slender hand. Izuku sees how he has been replaced.

The boy is sniffling. Chizome almost feels bad, but he knows that this is a lesson that must be learned. He knows that the anger Izuku feels will fester, but with training it will become his strength. Chizome knows the sting of betrayal all too well, but it is something that Izuku needs to see. It is the only way to move on and let go of the past.

The video ends on the image of Inko pulling the boy and his mother into a hug, smile on her face. Izuku stares at the frozen picture. Chizome can see his shoulders trembling. He sighs, muttering out a quiet, "Kid, listen. I know—"

Izuku turns and Chizome cuts himself off so quickly he nearly bites his tongue. He stares at Izuku, taking in the sight of fat tears rolling down his chubby little cheeks. He stares at the shine of his eyes and at the way the dull glow of the screen casts the bright smile that stretches across his face into sharp angles.

"Thank you, Stendhal."

He can only stare, silent and waiting. Izuku sniffles but does not wipe his tears away, unashamed of the clear display of emotion. Looking at it, Chizome realizes that until this moment, the wavering little grins he had seen had been nothing but pale imitations of the boy's true smile. His eyes dart to the screen, and he recognizes the expression on Midoriya Inko's face.

"I'm happy," Izuku says, and Chizome is surprised to realize that the boy means it. "My mom isn't sad. She's found people she can be happy with. If she's okay...then I can be, too."

Chizome nods and waits for Izuku to turn back to the screen before he allows a wide smile to creep across his face. Any doubts he may have had are gone. He will raise Izuku to be the hero the world needs, someone strong enough to stand beside All Might. He knows that he did the right thing by choosing Izuku.


	10. Chapter 10

Shoto can hear his parents arguing in the kitchen. His father doesn't care about appearances here in the safety of their own home, so he makes no effort to keep his voice down. Even from his hiding spot in the room over, Shoto can feel the heat that rolls off his father in waves. Sweat is beading across his forehead.

He creeps closer to the open doorway. He finds his curiosity about what could inspire such anger outweighing his fear. His mother's voice is soft and even, and much too low to make out any words.

He takes another step forward, inching closer until he is pressed against the wall, hidden only by the doorframe.

"I haven't," his mother is saying. "You're angry for nothing. You do this so often, Enji, and I am tired of it."

The words that spill from his father's mouth have Shoto slapping his hands over his ears, just like his sister had taught him to do. Those are very mean, bad words. She said he doesn't need to listen to them when dad wasn't shouting them at him.

When he uncovers his ears, the shouting has stopped. His parents are speaking quietly, and he peeks around the corner of the door to check on his mom. She is standing tall instead of cowering before his father like she usually would. It makes Shouto want to stand a little taller, too.

"You can't stop me from leaving, Enji."

"Then go," his father hisses.

There are flames that flicker and die around his shoulders and eyes with every breath he takes. His mother nods, short and sharp. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her fingers curl into fists to hide the way they tremble, though Shoto can't see that.

"I'm taking the children with me."

The tea kettle begins to scream.

Shoto whimpers as the room explodes into flames in a sudden blinding burst. They are extinguished just as quickly by a blast of cold wind. When he looks again, his mother's dress is singed and her hair is whipping about in the freezing eddies of air. His father advances a step, teeth bared in a snarl.

"You don't scare me!" his mother howls, but the wild eyed stare and the way she stumbles backwards into the cabinets shows she is lying. Shoto's stomach hurts as he watches tears freeze on his mother's face.

"You have no chance in hell of ever taking them," his father says as he advances, step by step, flames growing and wreathing his body as the icy blasts begin to taper off and die out. "You will leave, and once you step foot out that door, you will never see them again."

"They're my children, and you are hurting them," she whispers, hands scrabbling blindly over the counters behind her, unwilling to take her eyes off of her husband.

Shoto takes a step forward, breaching the invisible barrier, the kitchen floor cold against his bare feet even as his father blazes just a yard ahead. For the first time, he sees his father's lips curl into a smile. It is not kind.

"Prove it,"he says, and raises his hand to strike her. His mother screams.

"Don't hurt her!" Shouto cries, rushing forward.

At the same moment, his mother's fingers wrap around the handle of the tea kettle and she throws it with a scream of desperate terror.

There is the sensation of horrible pain, nothing like the bruises and cuts and tiny little burns he has experienced so far in his short life. This is all consuming, and for that moment he forgets what it is like to not be in pain. From far away, he can hear his mother sobbing and his father's roars of fury.

Then, blissfully, his world goes dark.

.

When he wakes up again, it is to the dim lights and pale walls of a hospital room. His mind is fuzzy, but even through that fuzziness he can feel the pain that consumes his left eye. The doctors arrive soon after.

Shoto is seven when he learns that his face will be forever scarred, that he may never regain vision in his eye, and that his mother will never be freed from her confinement. According to his father, she had simply snapped and thrown the boiling water over her youngest child.

Better a wife gone tragically mad than a wife battered and desperate to flee.

He is seven when he learns that his father is worse than any monster or villain he can imagine.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey, Stendhal?"

"What is it?"

"You're not a real hero, are you."

It isn't a question. Chizome looks away from the television to where Izuku is sitting. The boy has crayons and an All Might coloring book in front of him, and is so focused on making sure he doesn't go outside of the lines that Chizome almost wonders if he imagined the kid speaking at all. He clears his throat.

"What makes you say that?" he asks, attention on Izuku even as his hands work mindlessly to clean the blade of his sword.

"Just a feeling," Izuku responds, tongue poking out just a little as he leans close to the paper and carefully fills in the yellow of All Might's hair.

Chizome knows the kid well enough to say with absolute certainty that Izuku's question did not come from "just a feeling". It came from hours of observation and context clues and deep thought. The boy was far too smart for his own good. It was likely that he had suspected the truth for a long time.

"How long have you had this...feeling?"

Izuku turned to look at him, green eyes sharp and mouth twisted in a way that told Chizome that he was already thoroughly done with him. It was almost impressive how quickly Izuku had become annoyed, considering Chizome had only gotten back from patrol 15 minutes ago.

"A few years now," he says, and it is refreshing how... _not_ scared he is. Chizome is glad that the days of the kid cowering any time Chizome is around are behind them. It is much more fun this way.

He shrugs and pulls up a chair to sit at the table with the kid. Izuku frowns at the scraping noise the chair makes as it is dragged across the floor. He doesn't comment, though. He grabs a blue crayon and begins working on the number one hero's costume.

"I'm not a registered hero," Chizome says at last. Izuku's hand stills, but he does not look away from All Might's smiling cartoon visage.

Chizome waits a moment, giving Izuku time to talk if he wants. When the silence stretches on, he continues.

"Sometimes registered heroes can't do everything that needs to be done to keep people safe. Can you imagine All Might or Best Jeanist saving people in back alleys late at night?"

Izuku seems to seriously consider his question. Then he nods.

"They would do it. Heroes will go anywhere and do anything to help people."

Chizome hums and reaches for a crayon of his own. He gestures vaguely and Izuku gets the message. He hands one of the coloring books over to Chizome, who flips it open to a random page and begins to fill in the red of Endeavor's hair.

"There are some heroes who won't go to places like that, though. Some who are only interested in saving people during the day, when there are lots of people there to cheer for them. Good heroes, like All Might, can't be everywhere all the time. You know that, right?"

Izuku actually scoffs at that. His little mouth turns into a scowl and acidic green eyes dart up to steal a quick glance at Chizome's unmasked face. His gaze is full of quiet accusations. He knows that the kid must be thinking of the night he was taken, years ago.

"Of course I know that," Izuku says. "But that's what underground heroes are for."

"Yes," Chizome says, slowly. His red crayon has moved on to the flames that lick at Endeavor's face, hiding his features behind a mask of his own making. "But just like heroes that work in the daylight, underground heroes can't be everywhere at once, either. So that means that people like me, and people like you, are needed to help fill the gaps. We help people that not even the heroes can."

Izuku seems to consider this. The blue crayon is pressed hard into the paper, wrinkling the side of All Might's body like a wound.

"You don't always help people." Izuku's voice is quiet and quivering, like saying the words out loud hurts him. "Sometimes you come back all bloody. But it isn't your blood. I know you leave again when you think I'm asleep." He swallows hard and meets Chizome's eyes with a hard glare.

"You took me instead of taking me home to my mom."

"Yes, I did. And I do. But you know why I have to do the things I do, Izuku."

The glare dissolves almost immediately and Izuku's eyes fill with tears. He nods, small and shrinking into himself more every second.

"You're trying to make the world better," he says.

The words are robotic and rehearsed, nothing more than an echo. He hopes that, someday, the boy will see the truth of the matter and come to believe the words he speaks.

"Yes. Sometimes bad people can become heroes, and sometimes even the best heroes aren't enough. There are rules that society has in place, and registered heroes have to follow those rules, even if it means not helping people like they should. When I go out and help people, I'm making a difference in the world. To the people that I can save, I am a hero. It's the same for you, Izuku. To each and every person you save, you become their hero."

Izuku is openly sobbing, not bothering to wipe away his tears. His hand is clenched hard around his crayon, which has scored a mark across his perfect picture, going far outside the lines he had been so carefully following.

Chizome smiles, though it is a little sad. He waits while Izuku lets his emotions out, lets the darkness and anger bleed through his eyes and drip to the table below, soaking through All Might's smile and into the pages below. This happens every so often. Izuku just needs to cry himself out, and when he is done, the happy child Chizome knows so well is back.

Finally, the sobbing subsides. It is replaced by a few pathetic little hiccups while Izuku wipes at his eyes and nose with his sleeve. When he's done, he looks back to Chizome with puffy red eyes. In the background, the news drones on.

"How do you know if someone isn't a very good hero?" Izuku asks, sniffling.

"I'll teach you how to spot them when you're older," Chizome says, and his red crayon leaves a thin line across Endeavor's neck.

* * *

 **Happy really late birthday to my brother, who I once promised to write a BNHA fic for and never actually followed through. Please take this chapter as a humble offering.**

 **As always, I'm just going with the flow and writing as ideas come, so if anyone wants to see any character or scenario please feel free to say so.**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who reads, and a special thanks to those of you who leave reviews and bookmark/favorite this fic. It really does mean the world to me.**


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